That Scottish Play, or Beware the Bard
by ImpracticalDemon
Summary: Lucy is the Second Witch. Erza keeps insisting that the cast remember not to use the real name of "that Scottish Play". Lucy doesn't believe in theatrical superstition, but Gray has been missing for two days now. Fairy Tail, Shakespeare, a little horror and a dash of romance. For siriusly-random on tumblr for the Fairy Tail Halloween Fic Exchange.


**Author's Note:**

This story is written as a gift for **siriusly-random** on **tumblr** for the **Fairy Tail Halloween Fic Exchange**.

With apologies to Shakespeare, my readers and well... you'll see. I honestly have no idea where this story came from. It may have been inspired in part by Terry Pratchett's brilliant stories about his "Wyrd Sisters". The opening certainly is.

I hope you will enjoy the madness within! Oh. And Happy Halloween.

~ _Impracticaldemon_

PS _Macbeth_ , _Hamlet_ , _As You Like It_ , _Othello_

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 **That Scottish Play, or Beware the Bard**

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 **[Part I] - Death by Shakespeare**

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"When shall we three meet again?" asked the red-haired witch, swirling her black cloak dramatically about her with obvious enjoyment.

"How about next Tuesday?" replied the smallest witch, whose blue hair matched the inner lining of her own cloak, which hung very nearly to the floor. Heedless of pretty satin, she turned to pick up her white feline familiar. The fact that her familiar was also wearing a black hat and cloak didn't seem to disturb the other two unduly.

"I can't do Tuesday," said the third witch, pushing her pointy hat back at a rakish angle and scrubbing at her forehead with the back of her wrist. "It's Halloween, and I promised to stop in at the Strauss' party. In fact—aren't the two of you supposed to be there as well?"

Erza frowned, the thespian fervour dying from her eyes. She dearly loved rehearsing and putting on plays, but friendship came first. At least Halloween was a chance to dress up; naturally, she'd already chosen her costumes. As an extraordinarily talented Requip Mage, Halloween was a chance to show off some new designs.

"Oh, that's right," murmured Wendy, neatly replacing her hat into its allotted box. "It's come up faster than usual this year, it seems."

The three young women finally got their costumes stowed away—not without reluctance on Erza's part—and left the backstage area in which they'd been practising. Sounds from the main hall area filtered through the heavy curtains, bringing them even more solidly back from ancient Scotland and the Castle of poor murdered King Duncan. In the end, Erza agreed to Wednesday, and she and Wendy parted from Lucy not far from the guildhall.

Once all her farewells had been said, Lucy began the familiar walk back to her apartment, her coat tucked snugly around her against an unusually chilly October wind. The wind seemed to bite even deeper as she drew closer to the canal, and a sheen of icy moisture along the low wall discouraged the mage from her customary balancing act by the water's edge.

The glitter of ice reminded her of Gray, and for at least the tenth time that day—probably more—she wondered where he'd gone. He'd taken to walking her home from the guildhall, and then coming in for tea or hot chocolate, and she'd thought that they'd reached a fairly satisfactory understanding. The last time she'd seen him—over two days ago now—they'd curled up together on her couch with their drink, and he'd kissed her at the door on his way out. It had been very sweet… and she hadn't seen him since.

The wind picked up, and Lucy was surprised to see mist rising from the canal. That made no sense—the wind should be tearing the rapidly-accumulating fog to shreds.

Unable to help herself—in the sense that it was far too good a chance to miss, and they'd just been practising—Lucy murmured one of her lines as the Second Witch in Shakespeare's _Macbeth_ :

"The weird sisters, hand in hand,  
Posters of the sea and land,  
Thus do go about, about…"

She was very startled, but somehow not wholly surprised, when a cowled figure stepped out from the mist—which is to say, out of the canal—just ahead of her. She took a few steps closer and then stopped, one hand hovering over her keys.

The cowled figure laughed harshly and then recited:

"All hail, Heartfilia! Hail to Thee, Celestial Lady! All hail, Heartfilia, hail to thee, Golden Lady! All hail, Heartfilia, thou shalt be queen hereafter!"

Lucy took a cautious step backward at that, but responded: " Speak, if you can: what are you?" Then she laughed, because the whole thing was so obviously staged. "Although that's backward and besides, you spoke my lines! I'm Second Witch, not Mac—I mean, not the Thane of Glamis." Erza had given Lucy a hard time just the other day for saying the name of 'the Scottish Play' too freely. Lucy and Gray had laughed about it later—Erza always took things so seriously, including theater superstitions.

"Good lady, why do you start, and seem to fear, things that sound so fair?"

"Um… now you're _Banquo_? Although I suppose that's better than being the Ghost of Banquo." The person—Lucy still couldn't place the rough, gravelly voice, although she assumed it was one of her friends playing Halloween tricks on her—seemed to ignore this entirely. There was a short pause, during which Lucy shifted uneasily and the mist grew even thicker.

"All the world's a stage," the figure told her earnestly. "And all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts. At first the infant… And then the lover, sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad made to his mistress' eyebrow."

Lucy was thoroughly bewildered. "That's… _As You Like It_ , isn't it? I mean, it's a completely different play."

"At first the infant, … and then the schoolboy, …and then the _lover_ …" There was frustration now in the raspy voice. Another pause and then, somewhat triumphantly: "The Lord of Ice greets you, Lady. And he requires your haste-post-haste appearance. Even on the instant."

"Nope, no idea. You've lost me." The mist had become so thick that Lucy could no longer make out the canal. She had almost been home, but only the barest outline of her building could now be seen. Whereas before there had been the gentle sound of the water and the overpowering bluster of the wind, now it was deathly quiet, with the exception of her Shakespeare-addicted visitor. It was eerie, and she was beginning to feel as though the whole thing was more than a convoluted prank. Probably.

"Wait a minute—did you say _Lord of Ice_?"

The cowled figure had already gone on: "It is the cause, it is the cause, my lady. _Let me not name it to you!_ " The speech had become impassioned—although the person now sounded as though they were fighting for breath—and Lucy frowned in concentration. She was starting to get a _very_ strange idea about all this. As she racked her brain for more Shakespeare, she heard: "Put out the light, and then put out the light. If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, I can again thy former light restore." The words were spoken in a whisper; the voice sounded sad.

"Of course— _Othello_! One of my favourites—Iago was just so much more intelligent than most villains! Sorry, sorry, okay, just wait a minute. Did you refer to the 'Lord of Ice'?"

There was no answer, only a horrible choking, gasping sound, and Lucy suddenly shivered from more than cold. _Steady,_ she told herself, _you can do this_.

"Who's there? The _Lord of Ice_?" She hoped she was remembering the line correctly—although of course poor, innocent Desdemona had been asking about her husband Othello, not a missing ice mage.

The reaction from the—whatever it was—came immediately.

"Ay, Golden Lady. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly!"

 _Aaaand we're back to_ Macbeth _again._ Lucy felt sweat prickling her forehead in an unpleasant contrast to the damp, chilling mist. _Think!_

"The Lord of Ice requires me haste-post-haste?" Hopefully a slightly summarized version of a line would be acceptable.

"Even on the instant." It was pleading with her now, she thought. The next words frightened her, although she wasn't surprised—after all, why miss out on the Bard's most famous monologue? Besides, the setting suited _Hamlet_ just as well as… _The Scottish Play_. Heavily robed arms reached out toward her, the dark folds of velvet slipping back from pale, pale hands. "To be, or not to be? That is the question… To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream—ay there's the rub. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause."

Lucy stared at the hands, transfixed. They were Gray's hands, but white as snow and strangely clammy-looking. _He can't be—_ She wouldn't even admit the word into her mind. When she couldn't find fresh words, the person spoke again:

"I must weep, but they are cruel tears. This sorrow's heavenly, it strikes where it doth love."

Gray's voice, thought Lucy numbly. Now that she was listening for it, it was Gray's voice as if he'd gone back to his old smoking habit, but distorted with horror and despair. And he seemed to be telling her that he didn't want to, but he was going to… kill her? But, but— _come on, Lucy, think it through!_ —he'd also been trying to give her a message, maybe some way to stop things? Except that she was more and more convinced that he could only hear her when she quoted Shakespeare. This was like the worst English exam of all time.

There was no sound at all now, except for her own laboured breathing—and his. Lucy could see nothing but thick white fog all about her. She felt panic bubbling up inside her but forced it down. They'd been in worse spots. Right? She took a deep breath and abruptly closed the distance between herself and the weird, cowled figure, thrusting out her hands and forcing the deep hood down off the being's—the _person's_ —head. She had intended to do more, but recoiled in shock at what she saw.

It was Gray, but a slimy rope festooned with rotting strands vegetable matter was slowly tightening about his neck; it was already so tight that it seemed as though he should already be dead. His face was a strange mottled combination of livid bruising and ghostly white; his tongue protruded slightly, and his dark, dark eyes appeared to be starting from their sockets. Horrified, Lucy found herself unable to move, although tears started in her own eyes.

"Was the hope drunk wherein you dress'd yourself?" Gray whispered, fighting to breathe. "Hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale at what it did so freely?"

He was speaking Lady Macbeth's lines, Lucy realized—the woman's harsh words to her husband intended to shame him back into resolution and courage. If you ignored the fact that she was inciting him to murder, Lady Macbeth was actually a very supportive wife—in a manipulative, scary kind of way. And what came next? Lucy cleared her throat, and gritted her teeth.

"Prithee, peace!" she ordered, holding Gray's anguished gaze. "I dare do all that may become a… woman; who dares do more is none." Gently, she raised her hands to the contorted face. He was very cold, much colder than usual. She chose her words quickly, ignoring the rope, putting together key lines from both of the doomed Macbeths: "Screw your courage to the sticking point, and we'll not fail. I am settled, and bend up each corporal agent to this terrible feat."

"Lu-cy…"

Blinking back tears, Lucy switched back to _Hamlet_ : "What art thou that usurp'st this time of night, together with that fair and warlike form, in which the majesty of… _noble Fairy Tail_ did sometimes march? By heaven, I charge thee, speak."

Gray responded quickly, and Lucy thought she saw the rope loosen a fraction: "It is offended. See, it stalks away."

"Stay! Speak, speak! I charge thee, speak!" No Horatio, shocked by the sight of his dead king's ghost, had ever spoken his lines with more determination. Gray drew a shuddering breath as the coils retreated further.

Just as before, he cried out: "It is the cause, it is the cause, my lady. _Let me not name it to you!_ "

"As you like it." Okay, so that was actually a title, not a line—hopefully it would do.

Lucy thought quickly. It was now clear to her that against all reason, she and Gray had indeed brought a curse down on themselves by casually using the name of _The Scottish Play_ in advance of its performance in late November. Not to mention the way they'd mocked all the superstition around it. _It's ironic, really: neither of us would normally have been like that, but we were anxious and embarrassed and it was a handy way to keep things light_. Well, if it somehow turned out later that their guildmates were behind this, then she and Gray could plan a suitable revenge at that time. Right now Lucy was going to take it all perfectly seriously. With great care, she spoke the lines that completed the quote that had begun this strange encounter:

"Thrice to thine and thrice to mine

And thrice again, to make up nine.  
Peace! the charm's wound up."

There was a moment of absolute stillness, and then Gray's arms wrapped around her and the world went wild. She could hear him shouting into the tempest, but she couldn't make out the words. She felt safe, however; Gray appeared to know his Shakespeare rather thoroughly now.

With a final crackle of lightning and a sudden, drenching downpour like a bucket of ice water had been flung over their heads, the storm faded and then dissipated, taking the strange mist along with it. They were huddled together in the middle of the road, Lucy held protectively against Gray's bare chest. His skin felt much warmer than it had earlier, she thought muzzily. Despite the urgent need to get somewhere warm and dry, Lucy tilted her head back and immediately received an almost brutal kiss on the lips from Gray. He was trembling, she realized; then again, she hadn't noticed that she was crying, or that Gray's throat was savagely bruised and much of his face remained mottled.

They somehow made it up the stairs and into Lucy's apartment with their arms still wound about each other. As soon as the door was closed and the warmth hit them, they stopped moving and just stood together, their bodies pressed as tightly against each other as they could manage. Lucy could hear Gray's heart hammering in his chest.

"It was the damn play," Gray said at last. His voice still sounded very rough. "Although… it would've gone worse if you hadn't come along like you did…"

"Are you sure—"

Gray didn't let her finish. They were both still dripping wet, and even Gray felt cold, but he wanted to get it over with.

"Let me tell you what I can now… and then I don't want to talk about it all for a while. Okay? Sorry to keep you standing like this, but I"—he buried his face against her hair for a moment—"I just need to not move for a few more minutes."

"Sure." Lucy was glad that at least he wasn't speaking in early seventeenth century idioms anymore. Besides, her skin was still clammy and her clothes were wet, but as the shock receded a little she found that standing like this, with her face against Gray's chest, was warming in other ways.

"When I left that night—you know—after I finally got up the nerve to kiss you goodnight, I was in a pretty good mood." His tone was wry, but he sounded a little more like himself. "That lasted until I stepped out onto the street. Hadn't gone more than a few feet when this weird fog rolled in and then, I don't know exactly…" He swallowed painfully. "I did try to fight it—or them—but there wasn't exactly anything _to_ fight. Just jabbering voices and a deep feeling of anger and just… I don't know, something really old. Anyway, I struggled to stay conscious, but must've lost at some point. Next thing I knew, there was this slimy thing around my neck and the jabbering all made sense to me—well, I knew what most of the individual words were. After that, it all got kind of hazy."

Privately, Lucy doubted it had gotten hazy _enough_ for him. She could hear the edge of fear and panic—and pain—in his voice. But he didn't want to talk about it right now, and she could respect his need to pull himself together.

"Anyway, not sure how long I was—well, wherever I was. Then I heard your voice, reciting Shakespeare right around the spot I'd gotten kidnapped—or whatever—and I got really afraid and really hopeful at the same time. See… they actually wanted you more than me. But apparently I was more trouble to hold onto than they expected—which helped my self-esteem, in case you were wondering—so they didn't go after you. And they needed to, um, finish whatever they were doing before All Souls' Eve—Halloween, I guess. But you came along, and you said the right words in the right place so that I could reach out to you and… here we are." Lucy heard a long sigh and a hitching cough. "You're so smart. And brave. They were going to make me kill you, and… ugh. My throat really hurts you know."

"How about I get us both something hot to drink?"

"Um.. yeah… but I don't have anything dry to wear and—your furniture and all."

"Can you live with a towel for now?" Lucy blushed faintly, but smiled. "It won't take long to dry at least your boxers and you practically live in them anyway. Unless… you don't want to go home yet, do you?"

Gray blinked at her and then shook his head. There was a touch of red in his own cheeks, but he didn't say anything.

Eventually, Lucy changed out of her wet things and into flannel pyjamas; it was an indescribable comfort to be dry. As promised, she fetched Gray a towel and even found a t-shirt he'd left at her place at some point in the past—she tried not to be disappointed by that. More or less wordlessly, they chose to forgo the hot drinks and curled up on the wide couch together, deciding that touches and kisses were what they both wanted most of all.

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 **[Part II] - Recovery**

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It was very late, or more likely very early, when Lucy woke up to discover that Gray had tucked her into bed at whatever point she'd finally fallen asleep. She felt a brief moment of panic, and then realized that the extra weight around her waist was Gray's arm; she was curled up against him, and could only be glad—mostly—that he'd taken the time to at least put on his boxers. The t-shirt, on the other hand, appeared to be missing.

Lucy's eyes turned to her window, through which she could see the night sky, including the nearly-round white-yellow disc of the setting moon. It would be a full moon for Halloween tomorrow. She instinctively started to tell herself that full moons were no different from any other moon, but then shivered: it would be a long time before she messed with long-standing superstitions again.

"I'm sorry I didn't ask." Gray's voice was blurred by sleep and still marred by the bruising.

"I'm glad you're here."

The hand at her waist came up to stroke her hair, strong fingers first caressing and then gently running through her tumbled locks, taking care not to pull. His touch was cool, but no longer cold or clammy as it had been before. Lips roughened by his recent ordeal still felt soft as he kissed the back of her neck.

"I'm going back to sleep," Lucy said, trying to sound severe and failing utterly.

"That's fine." Gray carefully turned her so that he could kiss her. As her eyes closed, he kissed her more deeply, and then with increasing passion. When the kiss broke, his body was partly over hers, the weight surprisingly comfortable, as well as arousing. "Just one more kiss?"

"I think just one might not be enough, but we can find out."

"I love you, Lucy. I don't want to lose you."

"Hey—you're the one who disappeared for two days and almost didn't make it back from… wherever that was."

Gray stared down at her. "I'll try not to do that again. I hope you don't mind if I don't quote Shakespeare to you for a while though."

"Deal." Lucy cleared her throat. "Um. I love you, too."

She could make out a faint smile in the dim light. "I'm really happy to hear that," Gray told her. "I'd hate to strangle to death on incomprehensible old poetry for nothing."

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 **[END]**

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 **A/Note:** All comments and reviews are much appreciated! Thank you for reading.


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